


After the Fall

by Cenodoxus



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse), Resident Evil - All Media Types
Genre: Awkward Conversations, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, First Time, Flirting, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, Late Night Conversations, Oral Sex, Romantic Friendship, Sex, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:41:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24066031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cenodoxus/pseuds/Cenodoxus
Summary: "I haven't changed or showered yet. I'm pretty sure everyone I've run into here thinks I'm homeless. On the plus side, everyone wanted me out of the store as fast as possible, so I took advantage of that and got in the express lane with more than 15 items.”"You're a real bad boy, Carlos.""The baddest."Jill and Carlos after the escape from Raccoon City.
Relationships: Carlos Oliveira/Jill Valentine
Comments: 86
Kudos: 206





	1. Chapter 1

If you'd told her she was going to end the week with a nuclear blast and a man between her legs, she honestly would've thought the nuke was more likely.

* * *

He'd said they were following the aqueduct west of the city, but it didn't register. They didn't talk much after that; neither of them had headsets and the whir of the blades was too loud.

After leaving Raccoon in the distance, the day was a haze of exhaustion and pain. She didn't realize she'd fallen asleep until she woke to the feeling of the helicopter settling under them.

"Jill?"

Carlos' face loomed over her. He looked like hell.

"I've put us down just outside Arcadia. There's still gas in the tank, but I'd rather keep a reserve in case we need to keep going. I don't think that'll be necessary, but ... " His voice trailed off. The insanity of the last three days was in the pause. "I just feel better having a way out, you know?"

"Yeah. We need supplies anyway." She tried to get up and immediately regretted it.

He offered his arm. "Do you want to see a doctor?"

"I think I'll be okay if I just get some rest and food." She levered herself out of the seat with his help, but not without a hiss of pain. Her entire body felt as if it were in a competition to see what could hurt the most. "I know it looks bad."

"Well, yeah. Probably because it is.”

* * *

They caught a ride into town with a sympathetic trucker, who may or may not have believed their cover story (out camping, ran into a bear, dropped all their stuff and ran). Carlos thought this would be enough to fly under the radar. Jill would have seen through it instantly in her former life as a cop. Now, she was just too tired to care.

Carlos found them an extended-stay hotel that seemed reasonably priced. She had been afraid they wouldn't find any lodging for miles with all the refugees fleeing Raccoon, but then realized dully that there weren't going to _be_ any refugees from Raccoon.

Their room was on the second floor; the clerk apologized and said the elevator was out. She was so exhausted after climbing the stairs that she leaned against the wall, not sure whether it was worth trying to catch her breath when the effort was so painful. Carlos picked her up, ignoring her protests, and carried her down the hallway to their room. She waited for him to make a crude joke about carrying her over the threshold, but he didn't.

The room was decent. There were two queen-sized beds, a cherry-varnish desk, a TV, a sofa and ottoman, and a kitchenette with a counter and two chairs. She guessed the bathroom was behind a closed door to the left. It wasn't entirely unlike her own apartment, which -- she had to remind herself -- no longer existed. Carlos set her down gently on the bed closest to the door, and retreated immediately to lock it.

Maybe they talked, maybe they didn't. She didn't remember falling asleep this time either.

* * *

She woke to the sound of the door opening and a sudden flare of light, fumbling for a gun that wasn't there.

"Hey, supercop." Carlos was juggling a few bags of groceries and a large one from K-Mart. "It's just me."

She leaned back, trembling, against the pillows. She had fallen asleep mostly upright. The duvet had been pulled over her and her boots had been laid neatly next to the bed, which she suspected had not been her doing. The curtains had been pulled, but it was obviously dark outside, and she could see the faint glow of a street lamp on the carpet. The clock on the TV read 9:17 pm.

“Where's my gun?” Her voice was harsher than she'd wanted.

He set the bags down on the counter and jerked his head over. "I put both of ours in the nightstand next to you along with the bible the Gideons left. I figured you could make peace with the big guy upstairs if you shot me."

"I'm sorry. I just ..." She didn't know how to explain it. Nemesis had "died" so many times that she no longer trusted her own grasp on reality. The world could explode again at any moment to reveal the stupidity of thinking that bricks and drywall afforded any protection at all. "I guess I'm just used to having it around."

"It's okay. To be honest, I had a debate with myself over whether it was safer to go out armed or not. Finally settled on not, because there's a shopping center right across the street, but it felt so weird not to be packing.”

"Why on earth would it be safer to go out _without_ a gun?"

He smiled, but there was no humor in it. "Being a dark-skinned guy with a visible weapon gets you a lot of unwanted attention. I have a shoulder holster, but it's pointless without a jacket."

"Oh." She pushed herself up a little more, wincing. She wasn't sure that was something he really wanted to discuss with a cop, though she guessed she didn't count as one anymore. She cast around for an easier subject. "Have I been asleep all day?"

"That and more. It's Saturday."

“ _Saturday?_ ” They'd arrived Thursday in broad daylight. She'd been asleep for more than two days.

“Yep.” He had started unloading the grocery bags. "I've been conked out too. I woke up a few hours ago, got hungry, and decided to risk an expedition. I didn't know how long we'd been out until I saw a newspaper downstairs. I think you can guess what was on the front page." He shook his head. "I haven't changed or showered yet. I'm pretty sure everyone I've run into here thinks I'm homeless. On the plus side, everyone wanted me out of the store as fast as possible, so I took advantage of that and got in the express lane with more than 15 items.”

"You're a real bad boy, Carlos."

"The baddest."

She smiled. "So it's Saturday night?”

"Yeah. If you want to go clubbing, we can do that, but I left my push-up bra in the copter."

She started to laugh but stopped immediately; her ribs were already protesting. His gaze on her flicked down, and the next thing to emerge from the grocery bag was a bottle of Tylenol.

"I figured you'd want some of this. I don't think any of your ribs are broken -- or if they are, I didn't feel any of them moving when I picked you up -- but you're pretty banged up. Acetaminophen's better for contusions than ibuprofen."

"Doctor Carlos, huh?" She shifted, carefully swung her legs over the edge of the bed, and then got up as gingerly as she could. It didn't matter. Everything hurt so damn much.

He watched her progress with an appraising eye. "Finished-field-medic-class Carlos. And you don't have to move. I can bring you everything you need over there."

"I need to be moving. I'll freeze up stiff if I don't." She made her way to the counter and eased into one of the chairs. He poured her some water and pushed it and the Tylenol in her direction. "Was that Umbrella Corp or something else? That taught you first aid, I mean."

"Something else." He didn't elaborate. Two ice packs thumped on the counter next. "Sorry, these won't be any good just yet, but I'll put them in the freezer. The best I can do in the meantime is some ice cubes in a baggie."

She tossed back two Tylenol and hoped fervently they'd kick in soon. "What did you go to K-Mart for?"

"Clothes. Well, mostly pajamas and sweats." He upended the bag. "I don't know your size and had to guess, but I figured that bigger might be better for the time being. It's gonna be a while before you're back to normal, so I went for stuff you won't have to twist around too much for."

"Would it be going out on a limb to say you've seen a few rib injuries?"

"Had some, so it wasn't hard to remember what made it easier."

She reached out to sift through the clothing. As he'd said, he'd bought mostly utilitarian stuff. Under a sweatshirt and some exercise socks, she found a long-sleeved t-shirt and some pajama bottoms. He'd even bought her underwear, though they were modest briefs speckled with little flowers. She glanced up at him and couldn't help but smile; he was blushing.

He grinned but couldn't meet her eyes. "Sorry, they didn't have much in the way of lingerie. I know it'll be hard to live without your garters."

"Carlos?"

"Yes?"

"If I shot you, I wouldn't spend one goddamn minute reading that bible."

He laughed. "Yeah, fair enough.” She tossed a package of socks at him and he caught it easily, and then his tone grew more serious. "I just hope it fits and that I didn't overstep any boundaries. I mean, I feel like shit after being in the same clothes for so long, and I figured you probably did too."

"Thank you, and you're right. That was incredibly sweet of you."

"Not really. You got the boring stuff; I bought Superman boxers for me."

She looked: He really had. "I can't believe we're having this discussion."

"Jill, they were _on sale_."

* * *

Hungry as she was, she decided on a shower first, if only because she couldn't stand the feeling of being covered in zombie guts a minute longer. The shower was simultaneously one of the best things that had ever happened to her and a terrible experience. She had so many cuts and scrapes that her entire body was on fire under the shower head, and her moan must have been louder than she'd thought.

There was a gentle knock. "Supercop? You okay?"

She gritted her teeth, trying to suppress a scream. "Yeah, I'm good."

"Okay. If you need help, then find someone else, because it would be very inappropriate for me to help you."

"Go to hell, Carlos."

"Already there," he said cheerfully. The water hit a fresh set of scabs, and she decided she couldn't argue with that.

* * *

She emerged later feeling as if she'd been scrubbed raw. Every welt felt like an angry dragon roused from sleep, and it didn't seem like any part of her had been exempted. When she stepped out of the shower and wiped the steam off the mirror, she flinched: Her entire body seemed like one massive, continuous bruise. Even her neck wasn't unscathed; it looked like she'd been choked by something that meant business, which was (she thought glumly) exactly what had happened. She wasn't sure how much the bruises had been visible under all the filth and blood previously, but it was impossible to hide now.

She wanted desperately to be back in her own apartment recovering without having to put a dignified face on it for another person. However, her wallet was ashes along with the rest of Raccoon City, and she'd gotten the hint when Carlos quietly asked if she'd be okay with an inexpensive hotel.

He'd been right about the clothes. Even the minimal amount of stretching to get into pajamas and a hoodie was hell.

* * *

She shuffled to the kitchenette as Carlos looked up from the counter. He'd set up a sandwich bar with cold cuts, bread, cheese, condiments, tomatoes, and greens. Six family-sized bags of chips sat propped against the backsplash, which struck her as an oddly large amount for two people. "I thought we could do sandwiches tonight, if that's okay. I didn't think either of us would have the energy to cook, and the store didn't have any hot meals left by the time I got there.”

She stood on tiptoe to slide back into her chair, and couldn't prevent another moan from escaping as her limbs stretched. "It's okay. I'm a shitty cook anyway."

"You're in luck, because I'm not. Would you like a sandwich?"

"I would punch nuns for a sandwich."

"You couldn't go two rounds with a fruit fly right now, Valentine.”

“Guilty.”

“What kind of sandwich do you want? I have turkey, ham, salami --"

"Turkey would be fantastic." She settled back in the chair and felt some of the tension drain out of her at the simple prospect of a meal.

"Anything else with it?"

"Anything and everything."

"Turkey with all the trimmings coming right up." He reached for the mayo and bread. "And I don't know about you, but I need a hot meal. If I'm functional tomorrow, the plan is to make feijoada. We've earned it." He gestured with a butter knife at a bowl on the counter. "I started soaking the beans already. Have you had it before? It takes forever to cook, but man, it's worth it."

"I don't think so. What's in it?"

"It's like the best possible version of pork and beans. You'll like it, I promise."

"It sounds good, and I eat basically anything. I think my French ancestors would object to anything other than cassoulet being considered the best pork-and-bean dish, though."

He airily waved the knife. "Like the French know anything about cooking."

She smiled, but something about the domesticity of the scene felt off, as did the sheer amount of food he'd bought. She had a responsibility to ensure that the truth got out about Umbrella's activities, not sit on her ass and play house. She propped her head in her hands and watched as he chopped lettuce. "Carlos, exactly how long were you planning on staying here?"

He glanced up. "I guess that's really up to you. Nobody at Umbrella's going to expect me to turn up at work, so it's not like I have some deadline to be back. They're gonna assume I got barbecued along with the rest of the city, and I'm happy to let them think that."

There was an edge to his voice she had not expected at the mention of his employer. She was considering that when he shrugged and went on, more businesslike. "Jill, I know you want to go after them as soon as possible, but if you want my honest opinion, I think you should consider staying long enough to recover a little. And being blunt, I could do with some R&R too. I'm not as banged up as you, but it's gonna take me some time to shake off what happened this week."

"And how long do you think it'll take me to recover, Field Medic Carlos?"

He gave her the side-eye as he turned to get the deli bag of turkey. “I don't want to sound like a major-league creeper, but it was pretty hard not to notice that you had a new set of injuries every time I saw you. So do you want me to be nice about this, or do you want me to be honest?

What the hell. “Honest.”

“I think you've got a bunch of bruised ribs and probably a few contusions knocking around elsewhere. Your left ankle is either sprained or broken, and I'd also throw in the possibility of a concussion. I really do think you should see a doctor.” His eyes settled on her neck. “I think you came very close to dying at a few points, some of which I probably don't even know about. It's going to be a few months before you're in fighting shape, and a lot longer than that to really deal with things. And --" He forestalled her protest. "I know you don't want to wait that long. That doesn't mean you should go running off right now, though. Get in touch with your people, but don't go nuts trying to get back in the field. You did as much as anyone possibly could have to save that city, and having to rest doesn't make you a failure.”

“No. The city getting nuked is what makes me a failure.” Rosso had been a prick, but his words haunted her. He'd probably been incinerated too.

“Not your call and not your fault.”

“I don't know.” She turned her glass around slowly in her hands. “I was trying to get out of Raccoon as it was. I got suspended by the RPD for bullshit reasons, and Umbrella was tracking me and doing whatever it could to make sure I wasn't going to be a problem for them. I wasn't paying attention to much apart from that, so it's not like I did anything to prevent this.”

Carlos paused in the middle of slicing a tomato. He was good with a knife, she noticed. “They were tracking you?”

“Yeah.”

“You're sure?”

“Positive. I was being watched from the apartment across the street, and they followed me whenever I went out. I wouldn't have put it past them to tap my phone, either.”

“But why would they do that?”

“It's a really long story.”

Carlos was quiet for a moment. “I'm sorry. I didn't actually mean to grill you about this. I just don't understand. I have time, if you want to talk.”

“Honestly, I don't.” She looked away. It felt too curt to leave it at that, though. “Not yet, at least. It's not personal, Carlos. I just … I don't want to relive it right this second, you know?”

“One question, and that'll be the end of it, I promise. Is that how Mikhail and Nicholai knew who you were?”

She stared at him. “Yes.”

He met her eyes, obviously uncertain about what to do with that information, but he was true to his word. “Okay. And for what it's worth, I'm sorry. For whatever happened.” He slid the completed sandwich onto a plate and snagged a bag of chips, presenting the finished meal to her with an awkward flourish. “This is good to go, at least. _Bon appetit._ " _  
_

It looked like something a sandwich chain would photographed professionally for an ad. "Thank you."

"You're welcome. And uh, I'm gonna go pop into the shower myself, if you're okay with eating alone."

"I have a lot of practice," she said dryly.

He started to say something, and then changed his mind. "If we'd been a little smarter about this, we'd have had the food prep guy shower first and not be a disgusting wreck while making dinner."

"I don't mind. I left dry towels and a washcloth for you on the counter. But aren't you hungry?"

"I'm a piece of shit and I ate three sandwiches earlier while I was waiting for you. I was starting to wonder if you'd drowned yourself in the tub."

"And you weren't going to check?"

"For the first time in my life, I was honestly more interested in a sandwich than a naked woman."

"You're not missing much," she said, remembering the mirror.

He gave her an exaggerated wink and pushed away from the counter. "Somehow I doubt that."

She watched him walk into the bathroom. He was moving more stiffly than usual, and was obviously favoring his left shoulder; she remembered with a pang that she was the reason for that. He was definitely in better shape than she was, but maybe not as much as she'd assumed.

She took a bite out of the sandwich. Maybe it wasn't a bad idea to take a few days off.

* * *

She must have drowsed again after supper, because she woke to Carlos carrying her to bed. She wasn't sure whether she should tell him she was awake, but he bent down and settled her in the little pillow nest on her bed as if she were a china doll. The lamp flicked off, and a few seconds later, she heard him get into his own bed.

She was left to her own thoughts in the dark.

* * *

Jill wasn't entirely sure it was wise to trust an Umbrella merc, even after everything that had happened. The Jill of a week ago would have been screaming at her to stop being stupid. She was keenly aware that someone of Carlos' size and weight could overpower her. When they'd first met, she'd guessed he had eight inches and probably eighty pounds on her. She'd make any struggle deeply unpleasant for him, and knew some judo and krav maga tricks that would've evened the odds if she were healthy, but he was right; she wasn't in fighting shape.

Objectively, it wasn't a good idea to fall asleep in the presence of someone she wasn't absolutely sure she could trust, but then, she'd already done that. Part of her knew it was paranoid not to give him the benefit of the doubt; it made no sense for him to have gotten her the vaccine if he were that loyal to the company. The other part of her – the part that had been tracked and hunted like an animal for months, even before Nemesis – saw conspiracies everywhere. What better way for Umbrella to keep tabs on her than through an agent who'd saved her life? But she'd struggled with it in the shower and couldn't understand how the company could possibly have engineered this outcome. Too many pieces had been moving on the ground in Raccoon for that.

She shifted to take weight off a bruise beneath her left shoulder, and winced as the new position simply moved the hurt elsewhere. Before their dinner conversation, she'd already made peace with recovery being a long process, but Carlos' questions about Umbrella had reminded her of other unfinished business. Deep down, she knew she hadn't come to terms with the mansion incident. But as her mind moved over it slowly in the dark, she thought that telling him might be one way to guess his real intentions. From his lack of background on the company – or _apparent_ lack of background, she reminded herself – she suspected that Umbrella's mercenaries either hadn't been told about Spencer, or had been fed a highly-distorted version of events.

But she'd been honest at dinner; she didn't want to talk about it. And yet it felt like the most logical, if painful, thing to do. If he'd helped her because he was genuinely a good guy, then she felt she owed him the truth. If he had ulterior motives, well … she might unsettle his conscience (if he had one), but otherwise, it would give her another reaction to gauge. She thought he had genuinely been rattled by the discovery that the company was having her followed.

No sound was coming from Carlos' side of the room, and she wasn't sure whether he was already asleep or just as awake as she was. She chanced a look, but didn't see any movement.

She felt her midsection tighten and then deliberately turned over to face the other side of the room. It's not like she was in shape for it anyway, but this would be easier if he weren't so cute.

Proof positive, she thought gloomily, that it had been too long since she'd shared her bed.


	2. Chapter 2

She came blearily awake to the scent of coffee and bacon. Carlos was already in the kitchen, and looked up as she shifted in bed. “Morning, Jill. Want some breakfast?”

“Ugh.” Her head was fuzzy. “I need a second.”

“I think what you need is coffee.”

“Yeah, that too.” She lifted herself carefully and took stock. Some of the soreness had mercifully dissipated, but she still felt off somehow. “I haven't had much caffeine lately. I think it's starting to catch up to me.”

He was watching as she got up and made her way to the counter. “You feeling okay? You look a little red.”

“Probably just the side I was sleeping on.”

“You were on your back.”

She settled herself in a chair with a sigh. “Good to know I'm being monitored.”

“I only looked when you snored, I promise.”

“I do _not_ snore.”

“How would you know?” he said, grinning. “I seem to recall you admitted last night that no one was in a position to tell you.”

“Fuck off, Carlos.”

“It's on the schedule, but breakfast first. Milk or sugar?”

“Black's fine.”

He poured her a steaming cup and passed it to her. “The sign of a true cop.”

“Not by choice. My department was so bad at restocking that most of the time we didn't have anything other than plain coffee, and I got used to it. Anything else tastes weird to me now.” The memory made her smile. The RPD's little coffee kiosk was pathetic enough as it was, but it habitually collected a set of aggrieved post-it notes from people who were annoyed about mugs in the sink and spills. Guerrero used to complain that they could solve murders and arson, but who drank the last cup without making a fresh pot would forever remain a mystery. As with so many other memories, it felt like she couldn't touch even the happier bits without the pain coming alongside it, so she decided to switch topics. “And I didn't say anything about my love life last night.”

“You implied it.”

“I don't remember doing that either.”

“I _did_ say I thought you had a concussion.”

The coffee was good; he seemed pleased when she complimented him on it. She sat and drank while he scrambled eggs on the kitchenette's little two-range stove. There was a decent-sized pile of bacon on a plate next to him, a bowl of fresh-cut papaya on the counter, and a loaf of bread beside the toaster. He noticed where her attention had gone, and jerked a spatula toward the bread. “I haven't gotten around to toasting any if you want some. I forgot to get jam yesterday, but we do have butter.”

She leaned over to grab the bag. “Honestly, I think toast is about all I can manage to do for us right now. I'm sorry I'm not more help.”

“I think people who can barely walk get a pass.”

“Still. My bank in Raccoon has a few branches here. I'd like to start contributing financially at least. But it's Sunday, right?”

“Yep. We can go tomorrow if you really want, but seriously, don't worry about it.” Carlos pushed curds to the side of the pan and let the wet portion fill in behind them.“I wasn't kidding, though.”

“Do I snore?” she said, embarrassed. “Really?”

He laughed. “No, not that. Your color is what I meant. Do you feel okay? Because you look pretty flushed.”

“I do feel warm, but it's fine.”

“Mind if I check?” He held a hand up.

She turned her head, resigned. “Go ahead.”

He gently laid the back of his hand against her cheek for a few moments. She caught herself leaning into it and suppressed the same thought she'd had last night. God, she was pathetic.

Carlos frowned as he withdrew. “Honestly, it does feel like you're spiking a fever. Is there anything I can do to convince you to go to the doctor today?”

“I'll strike you a deal. I'll go to the doctor if you go to the doctor.”

“I'm okay.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Mmmm, no. You took a lot of knocks too. And don't think I didn't notice your shoulder, especially because I'm the reason you're hurt.”

“Actually, I'm pretty sure Nicholai is the reason I'm hurt.” He slid the eggs onto a plate and moved the pan to the unused burner. “But I might be able to find it in my heart to forgive him. He _did_ take a bullet for me.” He turned back to her, all wide-eyed sincerity, and she laughed.

* * *

In the end, he convinced her to go to an urgent-care clinic, but they started arguing as they got ready to leave. Explaining their injuries to a doctor wasn't going to be as easy as getting past the trucker. Carlos suggested the bear cover story again, but after checking herself in the mirror, Jill thought the obvious hand-print across her throat was going to make that difficult.

She was in favor of just telling the truth, but Carlos (who had picked up a copy of _The Daily Arcadia_ in the hotel lobby that morning) wasn't so sure.

“People are panicking,” he said. He was leaning against the kitchenette's central island while she tried, with some difficulty, to get a comb through her hair. “There's not a lot of hard information out there about the t-virus. All they're gonna know is that you're from Raccoon and you've got a fresh set of injuries with a lot of skin breaks. I don't think they're going to take any chances; they'll toss you in a biohazard facility for months. It'll basically be jail, but with doctors.”

“You really think so?”

“That's what they're doing with all the other people who got out of Raccoon.”

Having her arms raised, with the attendant torture it was visiting on her ribs, was doing nothing for Jill's temper. She stopped and took a breath, trying hard to calm down; she didn't want to snap at the guy who'd given her a bacon-and-egg smiley face on a plate. “I didn't think there _were_ other people who got out of Raccoon.”

“Sort of. There's not a lot of them, and they're all people who got out early or were on the outskirts when things went to shit. They never got exposed, but it doesn't matter, because the authorities aren't taking any chances. And they'll probably be out of quarantine a lot sooner than you'd be, because … ” He gestured, frustrated. “I mean, you know. We look like zombie chow. And I don't think they're going to buy the story about the vaccine. We've got no evidence it existed in the first place.”

Jill was silent for a moment. She had no memory of the period between the clock tower and waking up in Spencer Memorial, but the carnage at the hospital had suggested how desperate Carlos' day had been. “So we need to come up with another story.”

“Maybe you could be on the run from a bad boyfriend after a fight? Just spitballing. I mean, you're right – we need a way to explain the hand print.”

“I could sell that,” she said, considering. “But hospitals usually report domestic violence cases to the police. We saw it all the time at the RPD, and I worked a few of them when I wasn't doing search and rescue.”

“So what happens if someone starts connecting the dots?”

“I can always say my boyfriend lived in Raccoon or whatever, and went home after knocking me around.” She looked down at the cuts and bruises covering her arms. “These are old enough for that timeline to make sense, and if I tell them I filed a report with the RPD, well … no one's gonna be around to pick up the phone to confirm it.”

“Could work.”

“We still need a cover story for you, though. Where do you and your injuries fit into all this?”

“I thought of something, but you're probably not going to like it.”

“The world is full of things I don't like,” she said dryly. “Just toss it on the pile.”

He grinned at her and leaned forward. “I'm the super hot neighbor guy down the hall from your apartment. Your psycho boyfriend thought you had a thing for me, and you _totally_ did, but you'd never cheat. He beat the shit out of you, got in a fight with me – see, that covers my injuries – and then took off. I'm a lazy jerk who's already got two baby mamas, but you don't know that yet.” She couldn't keep a straight face anymore, and he went on, clearly encouraged by the reaction. “I'm gonna swoop in and play hero, take you to the hospital, and then Romeo it up while you're recovering. You were thinking of leaving your boyfriend anyway, so the hell with him, and you're dreaming of the night I'm gonna ruin you for all other men.”

“Jesus, Carlos. You've put way too much thought into this.”

He gave her an exaggerated leer. “The best covers are always the ones with a grain of truth.”

“Do I want to know which part?”

“Just use your imagination, Valentine.”

* * *

Things were initially easy. The urgent-care clinic was busy, and the triage nurse was either too harassed to be curious, or had heard much wilder stories than theirs. He took their information without comment.

Dr. Hawley – a stern older woman with wire-rim glasses – was a lot tougher. Jill knew that many of her injuries weren't consistent with a domestic violence case and that her answers were getting more evasive over time. She had been called into an exam room before Carlos, and wasn't sure she'd get the chance to talk to him and get the finer details of the boyfriend story straight before he was seen. She hoped he'd have the sense to plead ignorance about anything related to her.

What caused the gouge marks on her right shoulder? “He swiped at me with something.”

The puncture wound on her left arm? “I don't remember.”

Dr. Hawley narrowed her eyes. “Were either of you using drugs or alcohol that night?”

“I had a beer. I'm not sure about him, but he's used in the past.”

“I'm not going to turn you in to the cops, if that's what you're worried about. What you say here is confidential.”

Hawley clearly didn't believe her. Maybe that was the best angle, Jill thought – to lean into the stereotype of the trashy couple with a drug problem, and play the abused partner who was too beaten down to leave. She had seen it enough to know how to act, though it made her feel slimy in a way that even the zombie guts hadn't. Still, it was better than admitting where she'd actually been.

She hunched her shoulders and affected a wheedling tone. “I think he'd been drinking before he got to my apartment, but honest, I just had one beer.”

“Did you call the police?”

“Not until later.”

“Did you get any medical attention that night?”

“No. I didn't want my boyfriend to get in trouble.” She'd heard this several dozen times from battered people, and was willing to bet Dr. Hawley had heard it too.

She had guessed correctly; the doctor gave her a look that mingled exasperation with pity, and the more intrusive questions stopped. _How is it possible to feel this shitty about a fake cover story?_ Jill thought. She knew she shouldn't feel ashamed of it, not even if it were true, but it still bothered her on a level she couldn't quite articulate.

The exam was brusque but thorough. Carlos turned out to be mostly right about her injuries, and she was indeed running a fever.

The doctor paused at something on her clipboard after finishing. “Your boyfriend went back to Raccoon this past week? Before … what happened there?”

“Yeah. I haven't heard from him.”

“I'm sorry to have to tell you this, but you probably won't.” She gave Jill a probing look. “Well, maybe not that sorry. So that's not him in the waiting room?”

“No, that's my neighbor. They got into a fight too.”

“I'm not surprised. Your boyfriend was a real piece of work. What happened?”

 _Play dumb_ , Jill thought. “I think he went to Carlos' place after we fought, but, um, I don't really know what happened. He came back to my apartment a little while after and was all yelling at me and stuff, but Carlos came back and ran him off.”

“That was very nice of him. You could have been killed.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

Dr. Hawley seemingly lost interest in the matter. “I'm going to order some labs and x-rays for you. We have those in-house, so you won't need to leave. Our assistant will let you know when they're ready. I need to rule out a fracture in your left ankle. You'll also need a chest x-ray; some of your ribs are definitely bruised, and from how you're describing the pain, one or two may be broken. Treatment won't be substantially different if that's the case, but I'd send you home with stronger painkillers.” She looked over her glasses. “Have you had any issues with opiates in the past?”

“No.”

“Okay.” She didn't sound convinced. “I'm going to give you a tetanus booster for the puncture wound, and an injected painkiller to get you through the worst days ahead. However, you shouldn't be driving with it. Is your neighbor able to take you home?”

“We actually took a cab.”

“Good. Have you been in Raccoon yourself at any point over the last week?”

“No. I went to stay with my mom after the fight, and then came back here.”

“So you're no longer sharing an apartment with your boyfriend? I'm sorry if that sounds stupid given what we've already discussed, but I'm required to ask.”

“I wasn't sharing an apartment with him anyway, but no.”

“All right.” Another mark on the clipboard. “If he went back to Raccoon and you haven't heard from him since, I think it's unlikely he'll show up again. If he does, call the police and don't open the door.” She looked at Jill severely. “Sweetheart, don't ever make the mistake of covering for someone like that again, and I suggest you cultivate better taste in men. I'll go order the tetanus shot and painkiller.”

“Thanks.”

Her hand on the doorknob, Dr. Hawley looked back at Jill, and there was a note of genuine sympathy in her voice now. “I have to tell you that people who've been abused can be easy targets for other abusers. Are you sure you can trust your neighbor?”

Jill paused.

“Yeah,” she said. “I think I can.”

* * *

They weren't able to leave until early afternoon, but did so with a bevy of prescriptions in tow. When they got back to the hotel, Jill had to stop at the bottom of the stairs again to catch her breath. The pain wasn't as bad – the injection had done its work – but she was stiff after sitting in an uncomfortable waiting room chair, and all the movement that day after so much time in bed hadn't helped.

She managed one step and her back locked up. She leaned forward and breathed for a moment, her knuckles going white on the handrail. To her horror, she'd started to cry.

She felt Carlos' hand on her shoulder. “Jill? You okay?”

“Yeah,” she said, her voice clipped. “Sorry, I just … I need a moment.”

“Is it your ribs?”

“No.”

The hotel clerk was craning his head around the front desk to look at them. The absolute last thing she wanted was to have a breakdown in public right now, but she couldn't seem to stop. Carlos muttered, “Here,” and she felt his arms circle beneath her legs and back, and he lifted her gently. She managed to keep it together long enough for them to get to the next floor, and then broke down completely.

“Do you need to go to the hospital?” he said softly.

“No. I'm sorry, I don't know why this is happening all of a sudden.”

“Well, shit, Jill, it's been a week.”

“I don't think it's that either, it's just … oh God, I don't even know.” She hid her head in her hands and sobbed. He pulled her a little closer, and for a moment she allowed herself the comfort of hiding her face in his chest. She knew it was stupid and inappropriate and presumptuous, but in that moment she couldn't bring herself to care.

They reached the door to their room, and she felt the muscles in his arms shift. “Is it okay if I put you down for just a second?” he whispered. “I'm really sorry, I just remembered I left the room key in my back pocket. Unless you've got yours?”

“I left it here. And it's okay, I can walk.” He set her down very gently, and she wiped her eyes and snuffled. “I'm so sorry. I can't imagine what you must think.”

He unlocked the door and pushed it open, and she ducked inside, wanting more than anything to get somewhere safe, even if that safety was an illusion. He tossed their room key on the kitchenette counter and turned back to her. “I think you're an extraordinary person who's been through a lot of trauma and hasn't been given the time to process it,” he said. “That's what I think.”

“But this has been going on since Spencer. I don't know why it's hitting all of a sudden.”

He was silent for a moment. “Is Spencer whatever happened this summer?”

“Yes. I'm not sure what Umbrella told you about it.”

“Probably nothing true.” The bitterness had returned to his voice, and she saw a muscle clench in his jaw. Then he looked at her and he was Carlos again. “Jill, why don't you catch some sleep? I'm going to start throwing dinner together. We both need a hot meal.”

She shook her head. “I can't keep asking you to do all this. Why don't you take a nap and I'll cook dinner?”

“Well, I wasn't kidding about wanting to have feijoada, so unless you know my Vovó's recipe, that's gonna be my job.”

“Vovó?”

“My grandmother. She used to make it for us every Saturday. And we couldn't have it yesterday, which was obviously a great injustice, so we're going to have it now.” He smiled. “You gonna argue with that logic?”

Jill was exhausted and all too glad to take the excuse. “Okay. You're sure you're not tired?”

“No, I'm good. Get some rest.”

* * *

The smell in the room was heavenly when she woke. Carlos was perched on a chair behind the stove, stirring a large pot. He had showered and shaved, and looked younger in a white t-shirt and plaid pajama bottoms. “Hey, supercop. Sleep well?”

“Yeah.” She stretched, and while the pain was still there, it was a lot duller. She could ignore it if she didn't move too much. “What time is it?”

“Almost nine.”

She groaned. “Not again. Jesus, I hope you ate. I didn't mean to sleep that long.”

“I had a sandwich earlier, but it's all good. Feijoada takes a while to cook.”

She rolled onto her side, wincing slightly, and reached for a prescription bottle on the side table. “Time for another one of these, I guess.”

“Need some water?”

“That'd be great.”

She read the bottle to make sure she had the right one as Carlos brought her a glass, and then popped a pill and grimaced. “God, these taste awful going down.”

“Ceftin? Yeah. I've been on it before.” Carlos had returned to the stove, and dished up a dark reddish-brown stew with rice, a side of greens, and strangely enough, orange slices. “Trust me, this'll wash away the aftertaste. Vovó always said this stuff could bring people back from the dead.”

“Just need a sec.” Jill righted herself with some difficulty, but he'd wrapped a towel around the hot bowl and crossed the distance to her bed, shaking his head. “Nah, stay there and eat. I'll bring you a napkin.”

She accepted the steaming bowl and felt the warmth soak into her through the towel. “I'll feel weird if you have to eat by yourself in the kitchen while I'm lounging around here.”

“I can sit at the foot of your bed or drag a chair over if that'll make you feel better.”

“It really would.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

* * *

The feijoada, as promised, was delicious. She had to blow on it a few times to get it cool enough to eat, but the combination of slow-cooked meat and black beans was wonderful. They ate in companionable silence for a little while, and Jill felt herself start to relax for the first time in months. She wasn't being hunted, she wasn't in pain – well, she thought, she was in _less_ pain – and she had a belly full of good food. All very simple things that had vanished from her life, and whose absence she hadn't fully sensed until they had started to return.

“I've never seen oranges served with a stew before,” she said. “But they do actually go together.”

“It's pretty common in Brazil to toss citrus in with a dish like this to cut the richness. This actually isn't a very classic feijoada, though, because there's a lot of stuff I didn't find at the grocery store. My grandmother would be pissed off at what I did to her recipe, but I hope she'd understand.”

She was chasing the last few shreds of pork around her bowl. “I can't imagine this being any better than it is right now.”

“I'm really glad Vovó isn't around to hear _that_ blasphemy _._ I just wish I'd thought to pick up some wine. This goes great with a dry red, and I wanted to give you a proper dinner.”

“Can't drink on painkillers anyway, so it's probably for the best.”

“Shit.” He looked at her in consternation. “I honestly didn't remember that.”

“Were you pinning your hopes on getting me drunk and seducing me?”

“Well, obviously. What's your tolerance like?”

“Pretty low, to be honest.”

“I love meeting women who have no standards after a few shots.”

* * *

They both had seconds, but he'd made enough for two days regardless. When they finished, he picked up his bowl and motioned for hers. “Here. I'll put these away.”

She passed it to him. “Thank you. You were right – I really did need a hot meal.”

“Sometimes it's all you need. Not this time – I mean, hurray for antibiotics – but it never hurts.” He went to dump their bowls in the sink, and turned the kitchenette's lights off. The soft glow of the lamp on Jill's bedside table was the only illumination in the room, and despite the impersonal furniture, it felt oddly homelike. She turned on her side and settled into the pillows cozily as he pulled the ottoman back up to the side of her bed. “Are you feeling better?”

She nodded. “I'm sorry again for earlier. I really don't know what happened to me.”

“Like I said, it's been a week.”

“The funny thing is, I'm not sure that's it. I had plenty of time earlier to be a wreck.” She toyed with a fraying thread on her blanket. “I don't know why it hit all of a sudden.”

“Just a shot in the dark, but was the doctor a bitch to you too?”

Jill felt a tiny burst of relief. “She was. What did she say to you?”

“It was less what she said and more the attitude. I got the impression she thought both of us were coked-up druggies getting into fistfights with other shitty people. I mean, we kind of do look the part.” He quirked an eye at his pajama bottoms. “I didn't exactly get us Versace to wear. But still, that's not the reaction you want to get when you need help. I thought it was just me until now, though.”

“No. I'm pretty sure she thought I was too stupid to leave an abusive boyfriend.”

“Oh.” He looked down, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “I'm sorry, Jill. The boyfriend story was my idea. I should've thought about how you'd get treated.”

“It's not your fault. It was the only plausible story we could run with anyway, and I played it up for her because it was better than telling the truth.” She paused for a moment. “And maybe it wasn't even that. I just ... God, this is going to sound crazy.”

“Nothing sounds crazy to me after this week.”

She smiled. “Well, yeah. But I think – it's not the pain, or it's not just the pain. I think dealing with the doctor just … I don't really know how to explain it. I think it just felt final. Like I'm never going to be the person I was before this. I spent so much time and effort training in the Army, and then working with S.T.A.R.S., and – I mean, I didn't automatically get respect from the leadership, because some of them just thought I was a piece of ass to hit on – but I was used to the general public at least being respectful. Maybe that's not the right word for it, because a lot of people hate the police and they're not respectful at all. But when you're search-and-rescue, they're almost always happy to see you, and they never _condescend_ to you. Getting treated like that just made it obvious that that part of my life is over.”

This was the longest she had talked to anyone in months, and he was listening quietly. That experience, she realized, was yet another thing that had disappeared from her life. “I could shove everything aside, just put it on a mental shelf somewhere and pretend it didn't exist, while I was tracking down Umbrella's financial network and trying to figure out who they had in their pocket. You know, doing” (she rolled her eyes) “ _cop things_ , even though I'd been suspended. I kept thinking that things would eventually go back to normal. The feds were going to get involved, right? Public outrage would run all these corrupt bastards out of office. Umbrella would go out of business. But it was never true. Everyone on my team is dead or gone. Everyone I knew in Raccoon is dead. My city just got wiped off the map, and I'm not a cop anymore. Now I'm a stupid kid with shitty taste in men who doesn't have the sense to leave a bad relationship. I should be happy because that means we fooled this doctor, but I'm not, because it was so easy for her to believe it.”

She sank further into the pillows, hugging herself. “And I deserve to feel guilty, because I probably would have believed it too, and maybe I wouldn't have been any better about it.”

“That's not who you are, Jill.”

“Yeah, it probably is. Irons always treated domestic violence reports as an annoyance, and that attitude kind of filtered down to everyone else. Including me, if I'm honest.”

“Who's Irons?”

“The RPD chief.”

“Wasn't he the person who suspended you?”

“Yeah.”

“Sounds like a great guy whose opinion you really respected.”

“I mean, yeah. I hated his guts. But he wasn't completely off-base on this. DV is always a lot of work, and because it's so hard to get victims to testify against their abusers, it cuts into your case resolution statistics. So your annual budget can depend on cases that you're realistically never going to solve no matter how much time and effort you put into them. I didn't work many, and I hope to God I never made anyone feel the way I felt today, but I don't know if I did.” She met his eyes. “I deserved this, today.”

He held her gaze for a moment, and then he shook his head. “Jill, I don't – I mean, if you really want to get into a horse race over who's the shittier person, I still kinda feel like I'm ahead. You were always one of the good guys. I was working for the bad guys and I was too stupid to know it.”

“There's no way you could have known.”

“Honestly? If I'd spent more time thinking about it, I probably could've guessed. Tyrell got pretty suspicious about some stuff after we'd been there a few weeks, but I just thought he was paranoid. I mean, I never thought Umbrella was run by a bunch of choirboys, because big corporations never are, but I wish I'd paid more attention.”

“Carlos, a few months ago I thought Umbrella was a company with a great reputation. They did tons of charity stuff all over the district. I worked some of their public events as security. Shit, they _funded_ S.T.A.R.S. Odds are pretty good I took more of their money than you did.”

He smiled, but there was no mirth in it. “So we're just two relentlessly horrible people, is what I'm hearing.”

“I guess.” She exhaled and tucked her hair behind her ear. “I don't mean to sound selfish. I don't know how it's coming across. I mean … I don't want you to think I miss being a cop because people kissed my ass. Like I said, today just made everything feel a lot more real.”

“You worked hard to be someone, and you had a place in society. But the bad guys won, and now you don't.” He was quiet. “That's something I understand very well.”

She reached out and took his hand, squeezing it gently. “For what it's worth, Carlos, I never thought you were one of the bad guys.”

“That makes one of us.” His eyes crinkled, and he squeezed back. Then he seemed embarrassed, and dropped her hand. “Anyway. I'm going to hit the sack. Do you need anything?”

“No, I'm good. And – ” She cleared her throat. “Thank you again. For everything.”

“No problem. Good night, Jill.”

Whatever the moment had been, she thought, it was over. “Good night.”


	3. Chapter 3

In the morning they went to one of Jill's bank branches, and then to get some shopping done. Comfortable as their sweats were, Jill wanted some normal clothes, and she knew they'd both look more credible to the authorities if they dressed professionally.

Against Carlos' protests, she insisted on getting him a suit. The menswear department tailor glanced at the array of bruises on Carlos' arms, but didn't comment.

Carlos looked distinctly uncomfortable as he was being measured. “Jill, I'm not sure this is a good idea. I look ridiculous in a suit. And I can't ask you to pay for it.”

“You didn't ask – I offered. And it's not that bad.” She averted her eyes as the tailor's measuring tape snagged Carlos' t-shirt, briefly revealing a patch of soft chest hair. She'd been around dozens of male colleagues who'd changed their clothes without her giving it a second thought, and couldn't explain why it felt wrong to see Carlos in even the mildest state of undress. They'd both been careful to give each other space in the hotel room. “You've paid for everything before this anyway.”

“Yeah, but that was stuff we both needed,” he mumbled. “Food and shelter are basic. This is … not.”

“You'll be glad you have it when we're trying to make our case.”

“I still think you're the only one they'll want to talk to. You're wasting your money.”

“We were both on the ground in Raccoon. Trust me, they'll want to talk to you too."

Though she wasn't sure who “they” was going to be. One of the store clerks had retrieved the local phone book for her, and she was flipping through it trying to find the number for the nearest FBI branch. Chris Redfield had gone to them almost two months ago; that investigation still had to be open. Or would it be better to go to the Army? She still had friends in the service.

Then she thought: Where the hell is Redfield now anyway? Tracking him down in Europe was going to be a headache without the list of contacts she'd had in Raccoon. She was brought out of her reverie by the tailor's attempts to get her attention.

“Miss? Is there a particular day you need this by?”

She looked at Carlos; he shrugged silently. “I'm not really sure. When can you have it done?”

“The alterations are pretty minimal, so a few days. I'd say maybe Wednesday or Thursday.”

“That sounds good. Thank you.” She rose. “Come on. We need to get shoes too.”

“Is there any way I can change your mind about any of this?”

“Nope.”

Carlos heaved a sigh. “Lead the way, supercop.”

* * *

She had wanted to get everything done in a day, but was flagging badly by early afternoon. However, she'd ordered new bank cards, bought new clothes and shoes for both of them, and picked up some toiletries, so it was still progress. When they arrived back at the hotel, she was privately grateful that her back hadn't locked up again. Carlos had gallantly offered to carry their things, but was running short on arm space.

He shifted their bags as they went up the staircase, pausing every so often so Jill could rest. “Maybe I should pick up a beater somewhere, or we could rent a car. It's a pain in the ass having to wait on taxis.”

“I actually wanted to ask you about that. The closest FBI branch is in New Horeb – well, it's in New Horeb _now_ ,” she amended. “There was one in Raccoon. But anyway, it's almost an hour's drive. I'm not sure whether it makes more sense to take a taxi or just rent a car at this point.”

'We could always take the helicopter if there's a landing site near the office.”

“Honestly, I've got no clue. I've never been to the New Horeb office. But wouldn't that be more expensive?”

“Depends. 100LL fuel is about five bucks a gallon." They'd reached their room, and he considered for a moment as she unlocked the door and held it open for him. "It depends on flight conditions, but New Horeb is … what, 50 miles from here?” He set their bags down on the counter. “And do you need another dose of painkillers?”

She sighed. “Was it that obvious?”

“You were okay for the most part, but I figured that might have been the reason our little shopping spree came to an end. Although I would have taken any excuse to get out of the feminine hygiene aisle at the supermarket.” He grinned as she shot him her best Disapproving Cop look. “Anyway, I don't know about you, but I'm starving. I'm gonna throw some sandwiches together for us.”

“That sounds great. And yeah, I was starting to get stiff.” She slid back into her accustomed seat at the counter, grateful to be off her feet, and decided to make herself useful by folding their new clothes. “It's a lot better than it was, though. I'm glad you made me go to the doctor.”

“A concession from Jill.” His voice floated up from the interior of the fridge as he tossed sandwich fixings on the counter. “I knew it had to happen eventually.”

“Don't count on it happening again.”

“That thought occurred to me.”

She leaned back in her chair, wincing as the edge hit a bruise beneath her left shoulder. “We got off track. I think New Horeb's closer to 60 miles from here. I'm not sure if that changes things.”

“Not really. The chopper was mostly full when we got it, and I put us down here at around half a tank. I'm guessing it gets around 10 or 11 miles per gallon. New Horeb would be around a 20-25-minute trip. And then back, obviously. We wouldn't have to gas up for this.”

“Assuming the helicopter's still where we left it.”

“Well, yeah. There's always a risk someone towed it to one of those helicopter chop-shops you always find in upper-middle-class suburbs.”

She had to smile. “Okay, smartass. But it's not like we hid it. Anyone could have made off with it by now.”

“Jill, do I need to remind you that we technically stole it in the first place?”

* * *

It took her more than an hour to get someone on the phone in New Horeb. Predictably, they'd inherited many of the investigations that had been active in Raccoon, and had done so without all of the notes and evidence that RC had had before going up in flames. The office sounded like complete chaos.

However, they were interested in hearing from a Raccoon City cop who'd managed to escape the city, and even more interested once the officer realized that Jill's name was already on a watch list. The investigation into the Spencer mansion incident was still active, as she'd guessed, but that wasn't the only reason she was on their radar. Redfield had heard about Raccoon and called all of the neighboring cities' police departments and federal law enforcement branches in a desperate effort to find any RPD or S.T.A.R.S. survivors. She sent him a silent thank-you; it might not be such an uphill battle to be believed.

Her call moved up the chain of command swiftly after that, but the earliest New Horeb would be able to see them was Friday. She knew that was actually lightning fast compared to the more typically glacial pace of the feds, but it was still agonizing.

Carlos looked up as she got off the phone. He had picked up a few cheap paperbacks while they were out earlier (all non-fiction, she noticed), and was reading a book on invasive species in the Everglades. “You look like you just ran a marathon.”

She sank onto the bed and closed her eyes. “I _feel_ like I just ran a marathon.”

“So Friday?”

“Friday.”

“That's really the earliest they could see us?”

“Yeah.” She rubbed her temples. “Honestly, I'm not _that_ surprised. All of the LE branches in Raccoon are toast. Their active cases got farmed out to anything with a pulse, and now they're sorting through thousands of missing-person cases and conspiracy theory bullshit on top of that.”

“If it's gonna be Friday, we may have to rent a car. The forecast isn't looking great, and I'm only VFR-certified.”

“VFR?”

“Visual flight rules. Basically, the weather has to be clear for me to fly. I don't have enough training to fly only by instruments. Technically I'm not even type-certified for that bucket we flew out of Raccoon. I just got lucky that it's similar to a copter I've flown before.”

Jill blinked. “So we could have crashed before we even got off the roof?”

“Yeah. But you were having a nice chat with Nicholai, so I thought it was a bad time to bring it up.”

She had to laugh, but something about that statement seemed off. She'd thought Carlos had been a UBCS pilot who shifted to civilian rescue once his team had been cut off from surface access, because that made more sense than the alternative. She looked at him over her shoulder, eyes narrowed. “Carlos, what was it that you did for Umbrella? Like -- did you have a formal job description?"

“Not exactly, but I was their heavy weapons specialist.”

Her curiosity rose even further. “So … machine guns? Or what, exactly?” It struck her as odd that UBCS, which was nominally about search-and-rescue in an active biohazard area, would have the need for this at all. You couldn't shoot a virus.

“Most of the time it meant I was the sucker who got stuck humping our M249 around. Tyrell used to make fun of me for it.” He smiled briefly. “My squad also had an M4 mounted on a Humvee, and a few Soviet odds and ends, though I have no idea if they were any good. I also had a few RPGs and a rocket launcher at my disposal. Your stalker got a taste of that the night I ran into you.” His eyes dropped. “I just wish it had been enough.”

The exact nature of what UBCS was really meant to do had always eluded Jill, and she was becoming more certain by the moment that the FBI would be interested in talking to Carlos – possibly just as interested as it was in talking to her. The mere existence of Carlos' job seemed like a tacit admission that Umbrella had known exactly what the t-virus was going to do – or was playing around with things even more dangerous than that. (Which it was, she thought sourly.) “One of these days, you're gonna have to tell me how you managed to get plugged into doing that, first aid, piloting, search-and-rescue, and … whatever else you were running around doing in Raccoon.”

“I'm a man of many talents. Want to hear about the others?”

A growing part of her wanted to say yes, and even have them demonstrated on her, but she still wasn't going to let this slide. “I'm sure we don't have enough time for all that.”

“Apparently,” he said, returning to his book, “We have all week.”

* * *

The days that followed fell into a stilted rhythm of eating, reading, getting phone calls from various investigators, watching whatever was on TV, and especially for Jill, sleeping. She couldn't seem to get enough. She thought some of it was likely the painkillers, and some of it simply the recovery process, but most of it was a bone-deep exhaustion born of the last few months. She still fell asleep occasionally at the counter or on the sofa, and once even while trying to explain the rules of American football to Carlos when a game was on. (“So this is basically like chess with living pieces and a lot of commercials?” “Pretty much.”) She always woke to find herself in bed. He never said anything. She never asked.

Redfield got through to her on Wednesday. Wherever he was, the connection was awful, and they spent most of the call trying to make themselves heard. He did manage to convey that he was still looking for anyone else in the RPD who might have survived. She tried to tell him about Brad and Kendo, and the now-empty and possibly worthless vaccine syringe, but wasn't sure how much of it got through. He was (he shouted through static) very glad she was alive.

* * *

Carlos began to spend an increasing amount of time in the hotel's gym. She initially thought it was just a way for him to pass the time and stay in shape while recovering, but he seemed oddly preoccupied. He was never rude to her, ever, but was quicker to end conversations and seek private time elsewhere.

It began to worry her. The thought still lurked in the back of her mind that this was all a set-up, that she was playing right into Umbrella's hands by staying here, and that maybe he was starting to panic with the FBI's looming presence in an active operation.

But she still couldn't see how that was the most plausible explanation. Something was wrong. She just didn't know what, and she didn't have the energy to find out.

* * *

Dinners continued to follow the same pattern they'd established on Sunday. He would cook something, carry it to her in bed as she came awake, and then pull up the ottoman. At first they ate the leftover feijoada, and then he made a wonderful roast chicken, followed by soup the next night and then beans and rice.

By unspoken agreement, they avoided further discussion of Raccoon or Umbrella. He told her a little about his family and the village in Brazil they were from, funny stories about their neighbors, and how his mother and grandmother had taught him to cook. Jill suspected that everything he was telling her was actually true, but was nonetheless a carefully curated version of events. If she were still on the job, her first question would have been how someone from his background became a mercenary with such a diverse skill set.

But then, she was equally guarded. She told him about her Japanese grandparents and their enduring disappointment in her inability to make rice. Her grandfather once aired the half-serious thought that genes from her French father had knocked out the instinct for rice cookery that he maintained all Japanese possessed. They'd bought her a rice cooker for college, which had followed her into the Army and then to her apartment in Raccoon, and … well. She realized too late that the story didn't have a happy ending.

* * *

The night before their trip to the FBI, Carlos was even quieter. He had rented a car for them that afternoon, and they agreed to go to bed early; they'd have to be on the road no later than 6:30 am to beat traffic and reach New Horeb on time. He had picked up his suit after getting the car, and both that and Jill's dress were hanging on the bathroom door.

Jill stifled a yawn from bed as she watched him shine his shoes. “If we leave early enough, we can stop at a bakery and get doughnuts. My treat.”

There was a flash of his old humor in his eyes as he looked up. “Cops and doughnuts, huh?”

“Embrace the cliché.”

If she had managed to stay awake, she would have realized that he was too.

* * *

The day in New Horeb had already been grueling, and the afternoon promised more of the same. She had assumed they'd be most interested in what had happened in Raccoon, but a surprising amount of time had been spent filling in the gaps on the mansion incident.

Jennifer Choi, the officer who had inherited the investigation from the FBI's Raccoon branch, didn't mince words: They had virtually no chance of finding out exactly what had happened. Nearly all of the available evidence, both in the mountains and in Raccoon, had been destroyed. Moreover, in light of recent events, Spencer was increasingly being seen as a prelude rather than as a separate incident, and the two investigations were likely to be combined. They were doing the best they could to reconstruct the timeline with information from the few survivors, which at this point numbered only her, Rebecca Chambers, Brad Vickers, Chris Redfield, and Barry Burton. Of these, only she and Redfield had been in contact; the FBI hadn't yet located the other three.

Jill's stomach fell at the mention of Brad. Her first real contribution was to inform them of his almost-certain death. Things did not get less emotionally-taxing from there.

* * *

She emerged from the third excruciating meeting with a groan. As she returned to the lobby, she was startled to find Carlos sitting there, head in his hands.

She touched his shoulder. “Carlos? Is something wrong?”

He looked up briefly, the strain evident on his face. “Hey.”

“Are you okay?”

“I don't know.” His voice was barely audible. “I should've gotten a lawyer for this. Fuck, Jill. I have no idea whether I just implicated myself in something.”

She sat next to him. “I don't see how you possibly could have. Who have you talked to?”

“Two sets of people. One about 10 minutes after you left, and then again over the past hour. They wanted to know about how I started working for UBCS, and then what happened in Raccoon, and then they took a break to make some calls.”

“That doesn't mean they suspect you of anything. Debriefs can be … I mean, they feel aggressive if you're not used to them. They're just trying to get as much information as possible.” She leaned back in her chair and looked at the clock on the wall, suppressing the desire to take another painkiller early. “To be honest, I've been wondering about UBCS too. There's a lot about it that just doesn't make sense to me, but that doesn't mean you're guilty of anything.”

“Apart from terminal stupidity.”

She bumped his shoulder. “C'mon. We already had that talk.”

He didn't reply. She rested her cheek lightly against his shoulder, not sure whether it was the right thing to do, but wanting to give whatever comfort she could. She'd never been any good at this. Brad used to joke that she'd volunteered for bomb disposal detail because she'd rather be the person who blew up than the one who'd handle the grieving family. The rest of S.T.A.R.S. thought this was hilarious, but she'd never laughed. It was true.

Before long, another distracted-looking agent emerged from the back offices to retrieve Carlos for more questioning, and she sat up awkwardly.

Carlos exhaled and got up, straightening his tie. “Thanks, Jill. I'll see you in a bit.”

She watched him disappear down the hall.

* * *

The day stretched on interminably. As another set of investigators departed the conference room, Choi pulled her aside. “Officer Valentine?”

Jill smiled weakly. “Not anymore.”

“Still. Are you aware of Oliveira's background?”

“Not really. He's told me a little about his family, but he's been pretty light on the details beyond that. I wasn't sure it would be appropriate to pry.”

“The two of you are staying together right now?”

“Yes. I didn't have anywhere to go after Raccoon. He wasn't much better off, but he still had his wallet.” She extracted the hotel's business card from her purse (another purchase that week, its leather still stiff) and wrote their room and extension number on the back. “I'm pretty sure you already had our contact information, but just in case, we're here.”

Choi accepted it. “We do, but I always like having something I don't have to click around the computer to get. Especially because you're probably going to get sick of talking to us so much over the next few weeks.”

“After trying so hard to get anyone to take me seriously in Raccoon, trust me – that's not a problem.”

“Well. Anyway, UBCS often recruited people who had been in … compromising situations.” Choi looked at her directly. “I'm not sure whether it's my place to say more. I just wasn't sure if you knew.”

Was this what Carlos had been worried about? Jill thought. From how evasive Choi was being, she guessed it was something at least mildly bad, but not necessarily bad enough to merit further involvement. Or maybe the FBI didn't have jurisdiction, or was just reluctant to move on it because they needed Carlos as a cooperating witness. Still, it was hard to imagine Carlos having willingly (or at least knowingly) been part of something horrific. “Look, I know you might not be able to tell me this, but is he in any trouble?”

“Not here, at any rate. He's been extremely helpful, and everything he's told us has checked out so far. His testimony doesn't directly implicate Umbrella's leadership, which – I have to be honest, that's kind of the best outcome here, but what he's given us is a good stepping stone. Certainly more than we've had previously.” Choi paused. “Real smart guy, too.”

Jill knew that testimony from a police officer was, fairly or not, often given greater weight than testimony from a civilian. She decided to lean on that advantage a bit. “He saved my life several times over in Raccoon, and I wasn't the only person he saved. I really do think the low-level people in UBCS thought they were there to rescue civilians, and they did a lot of good. Or … you know, they tried to,” she said, feeling guilty. She had already told them about what had happened on the train, and about the people who would still be alive now if she hadn't been there. “Even the platoon leader, Mikhail, was trying. He saved my life too. It wasn't their fault that things didn't work out. That's … it's not what I expected, after Spencer.” And she realized, after saying it, how hard that had been for her to accept.

Choi smiled. “I wouldn't worry about it. I didn't mean to give you the wrong impression. How long are you going to be reachable at this number?”

“I'm not sure, but it won't be permanent. I'll get in touch when things change.”

“Right.” Choi tucked the business card into her clipboard. “I've given the syringe you had to the geek squad. I'm not sure if anything will come of it, but I'll keep you posted. And I'd love to let you go at this point, but our docs want to give you the once-over. So, uh, have fun with that.”

* * *

They were finally done well past the office's official closing time. Jill had ultimately given accounts to six different groups of investigators, submitted to a medical exam (“How on earth did you survive this?” wondered Dr. Perez), and given blood samples. From the extensive set of questions she got on her symptoms and recovery, she had the unsettling feeling that they really _were_ thinking of forcibly quarantining her, as Carlos had warned. She stood up straight and gave answers in her best Delta Force staccato. Either it was enough for them to conclude that she didn't need to be detained, or they just didn't want to do the paperwork on a Friday night.

She had expected to feel like a weight had been lifted from her, and in a sense, it had – but somehow it wasn't enough. She couldn't articulate why she felt that way, but it bothered her.

Carlos was waiting for her in the lobby. The season had already started to turn, and a cold wind whipped across the parking lot as she limped out. (Heels had been a mistake.)

Without saying anything, he offered his jacket. She took it with a murmured thanks, and they made their way to the car.

His voice was scratchy. “I don't know about you, Jill, but I don't have it in me to get anything else done tonight.”

“Let's stop on the way home and I'll grab a pizza. I don't want you to have to cook.”

“Sounds good.”

“Would you be okay to drive? I know having to drive an hour home is kind of a tall order after today. I can get us a hotel room here if you just want to crash.”

“I'm okay.” He quirked an eyebrow. “Well, I'm not gonna lie, I'm tired, but I don't think I'm tired enough to run us off the road.”

That was good enough for her. "Let's go home."

* * *

Despite her best efforts, she fell asleep on the ride back. Carlos woke her as they pulled into the hotel's parking lot. Still disoriented, she began to say that they could get a pizza in the plaza across the street, and then realized there were already two, and a 2-liter bottle of soda, sitting in the back.

Carlos stretched into the back to stack the pizzas on top of each other. “You were out cold when we got home. Nothing special, just a plain cheese and a combo. I figured that would cover the bases.”

“That sounds great.” She grimaced slightly as she undid her seatbelt and sat forward. The trip upstairs was going to be bad.

“You good to walk? I can carry you if you need.”

The sight of Carlos with his tie undone and sleeves rolled up was doing things to her, but still. “I should be okay if I take it slow.”

She slid out of the car with some difficulty, muscles already beginning to throb. A day's worth of sitting in conference and lobby chairs had left her even more stiff than she'd been after the doctor's office. The pain wasn't as bad, but it felt as if gravity had somehow doubled on her. Every movement required conscious effort.

The wind had picked up again outside, sending dead leaves skittering around them. It was a relief to reach the lobby, and an even greater relief when the desk clerk looked up and told them that the elevator had finally been repaired. Maybe their luck really was beginning to turn, she thought.

Jill began to wobble badly as the elevator car ascended, and then decided that dignity wasn't worth the possibility of a broken ankle. She reached down to unhook the straps on her shoes, and regretted it as her back made the beginnings of a serious protest.

Carlos glanced as she stepped out of her shoes, flinching at the cold floor. “Jill, I really wouldn't have minded carrying you.”

“It's okay.” She leaned against the wall, closing her eyes as the elevator opened. “Honestly, I didn't expect the day to be this long. And I didn't want you to have to make two trips.”

Carlos smiled slightly as they walked down the hall. “I did think about that, though I was mostly worried about the order.”

“The order?”

“You know that old logic puzzle about the fox, the chicken, and the bag of grain when you have to cross a river? And you can only fit one of them in the boat at a time?” His eyes twinkled as he pushed their door open. “If I take the pizza up first, Jill drinks the soda while I'm upstairs. If I take the soda up first, Jill eats the pizza.” She thwacked him with her purse as he started laughing. “If I take the pizza and the soda up first and leave Jill in the car, she shoots me.”

She tossed her purse on the bed, grabbed some pajamas, and then favored him with an amused glare on her way to the bathroom. “I'm gonna go change real quick. And by the way, I don't even _have_ my gun on me.”

His voice followed her as she shut the door. “Could've saved us both a lot of trouble if you said that ten minutes ago.”

* * *

Carlos' jacket was big enough to slide off without difficulty. She then tried to reach around to unzipper her dress; the pain flared instantly and she gasped. She leaned over the sink, breathing hard for a few moments. Jill knew there was no point in trying to will her muscles into submission, and that the injuries were still fresh; she shouldn't have unrealistic expectations for her recovery. But she was just so tired of being hurt.

There was a tentative knock on the door. “Jill? You okay?”

She must have been louder than she thought. “Yeah,” she said, her voice strained. “Just – I just need a sec.”

She could see the shadow of his feet on the carpet outside the door; he hadn't moved, and she wasn't sure he was going to. “Do you want me to call the doctor?”

“No. It's just my back.” She closed her eyes and waited a few moments. The pain had dulled somewhat, but she knew it would return the moment she tried again. She'd either have to sleep in her clothes, or – no. Sleeping in this dress would be viciously uncomfortable, and she'd have the same problem all over again in the morning. She suppressed a groan. “Carlos?”

“Yeah?”

“I know this is incredibly awkward, but I actually do need help getting out of this dress.”

She knew him well enough at this point to know he wasn't going to make a crack out of it. As she'd expected, he was businesslike. “Is it okay for me to come in?”

“Yeah.”

The door opened tentatively. “Are you sure you're okay?”

“Yeah. It's always worse at the end of the day. I just can't twist around too much right now.”

“Do you need another painkiller?”

“I'm overdue for the nighttime one, but it won't kick in for a little anyway.” She grimaced as another spasm rocketed through her, her fingers turning white as she gripped the counter. “It'll be fine, I just – I don't think it's a good idea to do this on my own.”

“Here.” He undid the button at the top, and then unzipped her. “Do you need help getting it off?”

Her head dropped. “Yeah. I'm sorry. I know it's awkward.”

“It's okay, Jill.”

He was exquisitely careful as he slid the straps off, first her left shoulder and then her right. She shuddered slightly – it had been so long since anyone had touched her that gently – and hoped he hadn't noticed.

“I'll try to get you a heating pad tomorrow,” he said. “I think it'll help with your muscles.” And then he fell silent, still holding the right strap so the dress wouldn't fall off entirely.

“Carlos?” She looked up slightly and saw him reflected in the mirror. His face was blank with shock, utterly fixated on her back. “Is something wrong?”

He shook his head suddenly and then mumbled, “Sorry. I didn't mean to – Christ, Jill.” He looked miserable. “Sorry. Are you okay with the dress now?”

“Yeah, I should be fine.”

“I'll, uh, go get stuff together for supper.”

He left immediately. She turned as much as she could and watched the door close behind him, puzzled.

* * *

Jill emerged from the bathroom to see Carlos in a t-shirt and pajama bottoms, retrieving plates and glasses for them from the kitchenette. He met her eyes for a moment and then looked away. “Ready to eat? I'll bring it over for you again.”

“Thank you. I need to lie down for a bit.” She sat on the bed and picked her feet up as gingerly as she could, sliding underneath the covers. The tightness in her back was terrible for a few seconds, and then mercifully eased. She leaned back against her pillow-nest and only then began to relax. “God, this was such a long day. I'm really sorry; I thought we'd be there for half as long as we were.”

"Not your fault, Jill."

She anticipated settling into their now-familiar dinner routine, but after bringing her a glass of soda and a plate, Carlos remained standing behind the kitchenette counter. At first she could only focus on the food – the pizza turned out to be pretty decent – but as the silence stretched between them, it was beginning to get uncomfortable.

She tossed back the nighttime painkiller dose and figured she'd be direct about it. “Carlos? Are you sure you're okay?”

“Yeah. Just a long day, as you said.”

That wasn't it. “I don't think you're in any trouble, if that's what you're worried about.”

He gave her a half-smile. “I take it you asked.”

“I mostly asked because you were concerned about it – I don't think I would have thought of it otherwise. But no, I don't think the FBI's going to be an issue.”

He didn't look convinced. She set her plate on the bedside table and decided to be more direct. “What happened in the bathroom? Something obviously bothered you.”

He stared at her for a long moment. “Honestly?”

“Honestly.”

“I knew you were hurt, Jill – I mean, I told you exactly what I thought was wrong – but knowing is different than seeing it. I'm – Christ. I'm so sorry. You didn't deserve any of this. I mean, nobody does, but … shit.” He tossed a pizza crust in the garbage with a little more force than was necessary. “I did a real bang-up job last week, didn't I?”

She was surprised. “Is my back that bad?”

“You haven't seen it?”

“I've only seen my front, and that was bad enough. All I know is that it hurts.”

“You've got a nasty set of bruises all over, but trust me, that doesn't come close to describing it. What's the word? Hematoma?”

“But Carlos, it isn't your fault.” She anticipated his protest and cut if off. “Seriously. You saved my life. Several times over! You're not responsible for the fact that Umbrella sent that thing after me.”

“No, but I took orders from them anyway. Tyrell and I – Jill, we were basically sent to _kidnap_ Dr. Bard after you left. I don't know what Umbrella would have done with him after, but I saw a video he left and it wasn't going to be anything good. And what I saw in the lab, I just …”

He trailed off, frustrated, leaning over the counter. Jill had the sudden impression of a panther, caged in something far too small for it, with nowhere for its explosive energy to go. “I thought Umbrella was a decent gig even if I didn't choose it. It was a way out, at least. But I spent hours answering questions today with people coming in and out of the room, and then coming back to ask about stuff I thought was completely unrelated, and I have no fucking clue what's going on. I was told _nothing_ at UBCS _._ I know _nothing_. Shit, I don't even know if I'm in the country legally. I wasn't given much of a choice over coming here in the first place, and they had my passport. If the FBI hasn't figured that out by now, they will. And it's great if they're getting something out of this to go after Umbrella, but for all I know I'm feeding them all the stuff they'd need to bring me up on charges later.”

Jill was beginning to understand why the week had been so difficult for him, but she sensed there was more to come. His voice was low. “I'm sorry. I know most of this probably doesn't make any sense. I just – shit. My life is shit. I have no idea what's going on, and this keeps happening. I'm just important enough to get jobs that people need to have done, but I'm never important enough to be told anything. I'm just someone's useful idiot no matter where I go."

She looked at him for a while, long enough for him to sense the silence and return her gaze.

Then she came to a decision, and took the plunge.

* * *

She told him.

She told him about getting the call to go to Spencer. She told him about seeing people torn apart while still alive, and how the broken remnants of her team had returned to a world gone mad. How the remaining elements of S.T.A.R.S. had scattered, and how only she and Brad Vickers were left in Raccoon at the end. Finding out that Irons was in Umbrella's pocket, and then finding out that nearly everyone else was too. Getting suspended and feeling shocked and abandoned when no one at the RPD stood up for her. Calling around to put her own investigation together and finding that her professional credibility had evaporated.

The sick fear she felt the first time she realized she was being followed outside of her apartment by silent men with guns. Hearing the telltale click whenever she picked up the phone and knowing her calls were being monitored. Hating herself for not having left Raccoon earlier.

The endless pills. The endless nightmares. Not knowing whether someone would try to stop or kill her when she tried to leave the city. Nemesis exploding into her apartment, and her desperate efforts to get away. Brad throwing his life away to save hers. Kendo, and what she guessed had happened to his family behind closed doors.

It should have been easy, after spending the day telling the FBI about the same events. She had been dispassionate, even clinical, with them; she still craved the respect and professional courtesy afforded a fellow LE officer, and she'd been scrupulous about not allowing emotion into her account.

But with Carlos, it was personal in a way that it hadn't been with anyone else. He had seen too much of her in Raccoon's final days not to know what these events meant to her, and he certainly knew what they had done to her physically. In the quiet of her mind, Jill began to understand why she still felt the enormous weight of these events despite the feds' intervention. Dealing with them professionally wasn't the same thing as dealing with them personally. As much as she'd started this conversation because she'd thought Carlos deserved to know what had happened, she now realized how much she'd needed to say it, and to someone who would understand how desperate and terrified she had really been.

He didn't say much, just listened, interrupting only to ask questions or clarify details. A muscle worked in his jaw at the mention of Brad. “Jill, um … what was he wearing? Your friend?”

She had to think for a moment. “I don't really remember. He almost always had a yellow jacket with the RPD logo, so he was probably wearing that.”

Then she knew. “Did you see him?”

“I'm … God, I'm sorry. I think I did. Tyrell and I ran into someone who sounds a lot like that outside the RPD later. He had a S.T.A.R.S. ID card. The name sounds familiar.”

“It had to be him." She looked away, a lump rising in her throat. She had resented Brad so much for not saying anything when Irons suspended her, and then he'd saved her life. "He was the only other S.T.A.R.S. agent still in Raccoon apart from me. But he wasn't Brad anymore, was he?”

“No.” He looked at her in anguish. “I'm so sorry. It was me who … I did it.”

She had always known what Brad's fate was going to be, but hearing it confirmed was still hard. She swallowed. “You did the right thing.”

“Doesn't feel like it.”

“I know. But if Brad was anything like me, he wouldn't have wanted to be a danger to anyone else.” Jill took a deep breath. “I wasn't totally sure I hadn't been exposed to the virus at Spencer, and I'd been put on a bunch of antivirals.” She remembered that sad collection of prescription bottles at bedside – much like the ones she had now. “I didn't have any symptoms at first, but I still had my service pistol at the apartment, and I kept wondering if I'd have the g-guts t-t-to … ”

It hit.

* * *

She had spent every night since Spencer wondering when she'd finally wake to the sight of the darkness spreading along her veins, knowing what was going to happen but powerless to stop it. As time passed, she was almost sick at the thought of sleep, because she knew what was waiting for her when her mind was unguarded. When she'd been suspended and had nothing but hours of empty time alone in the apartment – and when the alternative was being hunted like an animal outside – her mind went to very dark places. She eventually began to wonder if it wouldn't make more sense to end her life on her own terms, rather than continuing this hellish half-existence waiting for a virus or a hitman to do it for her.

And now she knew, in a way she had been avoiding for so long, exactly what the last few months had taken from her.

Jill cried and cried. She felt the bed shift next to her, and the weight of Carlos' arm on her back. She flinched – it was still painful – and he withdrew quickly.

“I'm so sorry,” he whispered. “I shouldn't have done that.”

“You didn't do anything wrong.” She wiped her eyes, still not able to stop. “It's just my back. It's okay.”

“You say _It's okay_ a lot, Jill, and things are clearly not okay.” He glanced at her, fidgeting, obviously trying to come to a decision. “Would it be all right if I held you?”

She nodded before she could stop herself. He picked her up gently, stood, and then resettled them on the bed, wrapping a blanket around Jill and cradling her against his chest. He looked down, a question in his eyes as his thumb brushed the back of her neck, and she nodded again.

* * *

She never knew how long they stayed like that. It was long enough for the streetlamps outside to have lit, and she could still hear notes of the wind through the curtains. She fell into an exhausted sleep, maybe, or just dozed, conscious only of the rise and fall of Carlos' chest, and his thumb gently massaging the back of her neck. Her tortured muscles began to relax at the unaccustomed touch, and a long shudder passed through her as the tension bled out. His thumb ghosted over her, finding the still-hard knots and massaging them until they released, never straying beyond the nape.

He murmured something into her hair, and she came awake slowly. “I'm so sorry," she mumbled. "I didn't catch that."

“I thought you were awake. I wanted to know if you wanted me to leave so you could sleep.”

“I think I already did.”

He began to rise, but she tugged on his shirt and shook her head. “I'd rather you stayed, if … you know, if you're okay with it. You can change positions if you want,” she said, feeling awkward. “Your arm's probably falling asleep.”

“A little, but it's not bad. Here.” He shifted around, separating them slightly, but still cradling Jill's head on his shoulder. “Is that okay?”

“Yeah.” She settled back, still drowsy. She began to drift off again, but falling asleep without acknowledging what he'd done seemed wrong somehow.

“Thank you," she said softly.

He smiled. “For what?”

“For … well, I mean, everything. And this," she added. Why was she so bad at this?" "And for Brad too. I meant it."

“Feels a little weird to get thanked for killing a cop. Especially _by_ a cop."

“I know. You still did the right thing, even though I know it doesn't feel like it. We knew what was going to happen, and you kept him from hurting anyone else. I'm grateful for that, and I know he would have been too.”

"You're welcome, Jill."

She took a shaky breath. “Anyway. You know what I know. Actually, you probably know more, because I don't remember anything between the clock tower and the hospital. And honestly, a lot of the memories I do have are pretty scattered. I barely remember getting on the train, and I still don't remember how I got out or when.”

“I might be able to help with that part. You got me on the radio after you made it topside.”

“I did?”

“Yeah.” He squinted, thumb still idly stroking her neck. “I think it was around 4:30 in the morning on Tuesday.”

“I don't remember that at all.”

“I'm not the world's greatest conversationalist, so maybe it just wasn't that memorable.”

"Or I'd just had a concussion."

He smiled. "Oliveira's pulling ahead in the 'I Told You So' derby. _Another_ concession from Jill."

"Congratulations. I'm too tired to reach for the gun."

She felt, rather than heard, him chuckle. "Was there anything else you wanted to know? Honestly, there's parts of it I probably don't remember either, but I can tell you what I do."

"Definitely. But I'll fall asleep before I hear all of it, especially if you keep doing that," she said, referring to her neck. "So maybe in the morning."

His thumb stilled. "Is this helping?"

"Yeah," she said. "It's helping."

He resumed. "Good night, Jill."

"Good night."

**Author's Note:**

> I decided to run with the fandom theory that Carlos is either Brazilian or Brazilian-American.


End file.
